


Why didn't you save me?

by deadbody



Category: DCU, Green Lantern (2011), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Barry being an uber nerd, Boyfriends almost dying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Joe being an awesome dad figure, M/M, angsty af
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:59:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadbody/pseuds/deadbody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Barry, the hospital called."</p><p>He freezes, fingers on the lamp's switch. Holds his breath and licks his lips. "Yeah?"</p><p>A hand on his shoulder. Joe pulls him close. "I'm so sorry, Barry."</p><p>He's numb. His shoulders shake and Joe rubs a hand on his back, rubs circles and lines, holds him close like he used to when he was a kid.</p><p>"I'm sorry, son."</p><p>He's gone. Hal is gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bang bang ( my baby shot me down )

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by one of those otp posts in tumblr.
> 
> In which we pretend this all fits into the cw verse and Hal and Barry have been dating for a while.

A streak of red runs by and time stops.

It's how it must feel like to Barry. If time is like a river, then Barry is the only one that has a boat and knows how to row. He moves while the world stands still, a flash of color against the dull gloss of a black and white landscape. Hal doesn't know what it's like. Not even an overflow of willpower can stop time, but it feels like that — if he had to compare it to anything, it'd be this moment.

The Flash is fast but even he can't be in two places at once. And sometimes shit just happens.

Days later he'll think back on it, on the moment between staring at the speedster dealing with the situation and seeing the gunman that escaped the group — seeing the gun and the kid — and he'll wonder if the ring tried to warn him beforehand and he just didn't notice. 

Or maybe it was out of charge. 

Or maybe he really didn't see it.

Wouldn't compromise his identity either way; shouldn't. His brothers would have twin heart attacks if they knew. If he'd wanted to tell them, he would've long ago; he'd have spilled the truth after his initial disappearance. It's too late now. He's learnt to live with the secret.

The world pauses for a fraction of a second that stretches impossibly wide. Between one heartbeat and the next, he reacts. And then reality clicks back and the world comes back up in full technicolor. And there's pain. A lot of it. And screaming. The bullet feels like a punch that somehow manages to drill a hole through flesh and muscle.

Panic, chaos, fear. 

( Is that blood? Am I bleeding? )

Red spreads in the middle, like ink, soaking up the fabric of his shirt. His knees go weak, he scrambles to hold onto anything but there's nothing. Gravity's a bitch.

The gunman — the kid —

The kid is safe. Terrified, probably scarred for life, but in one piece, curled up on the side where he fell when Hal pushed him. The shooter looks shocked; first timer, has to be, but the pilot has no sympathy. The gun shakes in the guy's hands. 

Can't breathe properly. Shock, he's going into shock. Every gasp is desperate. He needs to calm down. He can't. It hurts a lot.

A woman is shrieking next to him. His knees hit the ground. He inhales deeply, sharply, expecting the scent of gunpowder but there's only processed air and the faintest hint of something sweet. 

A gust of wind, a flash of red and yellow, a glass shatters and the gunman doesn't get back up.

Fuck.

He loses the fight against gravity and almost blacks out.

Barry's lips move like he wants to say his name but won't. Secret identities or whatever. His eyes are blown wide, tiny dots of color surrounding black.

"Somebody call 911!"

That is really stupid. Someone probably did when the robbers showed up.

Hal should've hit the ground but he's being held by red-covered limbs, trembling hands that cling too tight. It doesn't hurt as bad as the burn and the waves of searing pain that spread from somewhere in his gut. Shit. He really liked that shirt. At least he's not wearing his dad's jacket. He'd hate to get blood on that.

"Hal, no, don't close your eyes." It's a whisper, told close to his face, like a secret only meant for him. Barry sounds desperate — scared.

Something presses down near his navel, and he gasps, screams before he chokes on his saliva when he tries to swallow the sound, along with the pain. It's enough to jolt him back to alertness but only for a few seconds. His vision blurs, the edges turning black.

If he dies, will the ring fly off to find someone else? Someone worthy? Someone smarter than him, someone better, more qualified than a reckless, lowly human?

"It's not that bad." A smile falls short, doesn't even twitch on twisted lips. "Really." The lines of tension across his face deepen, burrowing harshly into a ugly picture. Sweat drips down his brow.

( Is this how Abin Sur felt? ) 

A hand pushes down on the wound; Barry whispers an apology. Hal doesn't scream again, too busy gasping to get oxygen into his lungs. His hand scrambles to push off the pressure, even though rationally he knows he shouldn't, but he can't be rational, not when there's blood flowing between his fingers, dropping down his side onto the floor, and all he can see are Barry's worried eyes.

His heart beats so fast, he wonders if it'll burst right out of his chest.

He's bleeding out, isn't he?

Everything else is white noise. There's only the voice by his ear, the rush of blood inside his skull, the loud echo of his heart working overtime. He manages to get the ring off.

"Take it.."

Barry shakes his head. His eyes look glossy and hard, but there's something else there. Hal wonders if that's how he looked when he faced Parallax. He can't remember the last time he was truly afraid. He tries to bury those moments away until they're so far deep into his subconscious that they fade into dubious recollections.

Lanterns don't feel fear, but Barry isn't a Lantern. 

His fingers are slick with blood. The pressure doesn't waver. He digs his nails against the leather covering Barry's hand. Pushes down harder just to feel it. The pain almost makes him black out again. "Take the fuckin' ring."

Barry's face scrunches up but he does, puts it away and repeats what he's been saying the whole time.

_Don't close your eyes._

_Stay awake._

_Hang in there._

Hal wants to reassure him that it'll be fine. He's had worse. Hasn't he? Almost burnt up in the sun once but survived that. A bullet wound is nothing.

He's not afraid of dying. He says it. Or thinks he does ; his lips move but nothing comes out.

More noise in the back, Barry turns away for a second and the world fades away into silence and darkness.


	2. there's no comfort in the waiting room

He should've been faster.

Isn't that the story of his life?

Every time he fails, he blames himself for it; always thinks about his shortcomings in ways to be fixed. Ever since his mom died — that might’ve been the catalyst. It’d certainly been what’d pushed him towards finding the impossible. And he did, he found it. He became the impossible. But it hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t been fast enough. 

He wasn't fast enough. 

And he got careless.

Oliver once told him to case the whole area. He was — _is_  — fast enough for it. He tries. Oliver had been right; he could do so much more but he hadn’t bothered to. Barry had no excuse. But that was before. And yet, he has a habit of rushing in without a plan, because the need to help innocent people drags along a fear of not being able to. And when he fails, the guilt is too much. Being prepared doesn’t account for all possibilities. It’s a work in progress. Nobody said being a superhero was easy. 

But how could he miss the robber that escaped the group? 

One guy, one bullet and his world crumbles to pieces.

He should’ve been faster.

Joe stays quiet, just a pillar of silent support in the waiting room. He doesn't tell Barry to stop or to sit down, despite how Barry will end up pacing a hole in the ground with how much he's walked up and down the small stretch. The phone call had come out of nowhere; Barry had been a mess of run-in sentences and he’d had to remind him to slow down a few times to understand. The mess at the bank had been on television but Joe had only heard about it from people at the station. The Flash had been there, but a civilian had gotten shot. Who would’ve known it’d end up being Barry’s friend? It could’ve been anyone else, but years of experience in the force chalked it up to be bad luck. Nobody could’ve seen it coming. Sometimes mistakes just happened and were unavoidable. It was a lesson Barry needed to learn — you couldn’t always save everyone. 

Barry’s buzzing with anxiety, barely keeping panic under control; his heart beats fast and he's worried sick. He stands on the edge of some type of attack, and it takes everything he has to keep a lid on it. If he causes a scene, they might kick him out and he can’t go, can’t leave Hal alone. Joe doesn't have to be there, it's not his best friend the one in the O.R., but Barry's grateful nonetheless. Iris is on her way — that's what Joe said. Caitlin and Cisco called once but haven’t called again.

He should've done something. 

Should've noticed the guy.

Should’ve stopped him before he drew out the gun. 

Should've.. 

He was the Flash. The red streak. The speedster hero of Central City. The one fast enough to deal with a bad situation in minutes — in seconds. That’s how long it should’ve taken him to disable the men, and yet, there he was, at the hospital, pacing under the artificial light of yellow light bulbs. 

Hal had been a civilian. Trapped just as any other civilian. Forced to raise his hands and get down on the floor.

And the Flash —

He should've protected him.

"Barry."

There are half-moon marks on his palms from how hard he's been clenching his fists. Joe stands in front of him and offers a cup of coffee. It's not like the one from Jitters, or Starbucks; it tastes like diluted gravel with sugar. He drinks it all, scalding his tongue, feeling the burn in the back of his throat. The styrofoam cup bends and cracks in his grip. He throws it out, goes back to pacing, counts the tiles on the floor and starts from zero when he reaches the total. Joe sits down again, watches him quietly. He knows what it's like to hope for the best but fear the worst. He went through it when Barry got hit by lightning. 

By the time Iris gets there, Barry's drank four more cups of coffee and he's gone to the bathroom three times, once just to splash water on his face. She tells him to go home and get some rest. He protests — loudly. He's only been there for a few hours. Hal's been in there for a few hours, fighting for his life, under the harsh lights of the O.R., under a knife. Barry can't leave.

His hands are clean but he still sees blood when he looks down at them. Hal's blood, brighter than the red of his suit. He’d seen blood in crime scenes before, but he’d never been so scared of it before. So much of it, just flowing out of the bullet wound.

Iris leaves and returns almost an hour later with food and good coffee. Joe smiles gratefully at her. Barry thanks her, sits between her and Joe and drinks the coffee before he guiltily grabs a donut. Running always leaves him hungry but how can he think about eating when his best friend — his boyfriend — could be bleeding out on a table just a couple of feet away from him? Every bite tastes sour. His foot goes up and down so fast it vibrates. Joe lands a heavy hand on his knee and he slows down. Iris reaches out to hold his hand and Barry leans against her. She tells him it'll be okay. He wants to believe that. The next couple of hours are a blur. He stands up, paces, sits down and gets back up. Iris watches him with concern all over her face. When the doctor approaches, Barry jumps up and rushes over, almost tripping on his own feet to get there. There's blood on the doctor's scrubs and a tightness around her eyes.

"How is he?"

"Are you a family member?"

For a sickening moment, Barry thinks the doctor won't disclose anything. He'll have to contact Hal's family and wait for them to get there so he can know. One of his brothers, the oldest one maybe, the one that's always fighting with Hal for reasons Barry doesn't know, hasn't bothered asking about; he'll have to look him in the eye and explain that Hal got shot while they were out on a date because.. because he protected a kid. And Barry didn't do shit but freeze and stare and wait for the ambulance to get there. He inhales sharply and holds his breath; his throat tightens, his eyes widen and he feels like a little kid again — they won't let him see his mom. There are cops all over the house. He needs to see his mom. She's right there and they're holding him back. He just wants to —

"Boyfriend. I'm.. I'm his boyfriend."

The doctor stares, as if it was worse to tell a significant other than a family member. She doesn't judge him, merely nods, and explains calmly that it was a little touch-and-go for a moment; the bullet got lodged and tore into his intestines but they were able to repair the damage, and despite losing a lot of blood, they're optimistic about his recovery. Of course, she adds wryly, she recommends no more heroics in the future, and plenty of rest. 

Barry sighs and the weight of the world that he’d placed on his shoulders goes out as he exhales. He can breathe again. Joe drapes an arm around him. He didn't notice he'd been trembling. Guiltily, he realizes he's relieved that he won't have to talk to Hal's family. He doesn’t know them, but he hopes to, one day. Just not like this. More guiltily, he thinks that he _should_. Hal got shot and someone should know. 

The doctor tells him the room number and warns him that visiting hours are over so he can only be there for a few minutes. Barry doesn't run, but he walks really fast. Joe and Iris stay behind. The walls are eggshell white, the sheets whiter. Hal is pale enough to look sick but not white enough to pass for a corpse. A blood bag hangs up, next to another transparent bag with antibiotics. He looks peaceful. Barry doesn't like it; even when he sleeps, Hal tends to twitch or move. He's too still and too quiet. It's unnatural. 

"I'm sorry.." Warm fingers intertwine with cold ones. "This is my fault."

Hal would deny that. He’d never blame Barry for something like that. Barry tries not to cry, but he can’t help the little broken sound that comes from deep within him. The monitor on the side beeps a steady rhythm. Up and down. A little slow but a strong heartbeat. He doesn't want to lose more people. Lips press above the pilot's hairline, a kiss that doesn't linger, but it's full of gratitude somehow.

"Thank you for not leaving me."

It might be premature, but Barry will cling to denial until he can't anymore. The doctor said it looked good, even when Hal didn't, so he had to be positive. Hal would recover, and end with nothing but a scar to show for it. And knowing him, he'd milk the recovery time for all it was worth. And Barry wouldn't complain. He promised himself he'd do anything so long as no complications hindered Hal.

A second kiss seals his dry lips against the unresponsive ones of the pilot. He wants to see those bright brown eyes staring back at him but it'll be a while before Hal wakes up.

It's fine. Barry can be patient.

He whispers another apology, kisses him again and squeezes his hand. A nurse gently kicks him out when she goes in to check the chart, and Barry looks back before leaving the room.


	3. one day you'll leave this world behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ykno tfw u think everything is gonna be okay but then life slaps u with a fish??  
> Many thanks for reading and special thanks to my friend, Daudy, for helping me with this chapter.

Hal laughs against the crook of Barry's neck and Barry tightens the hold around the pilot's waist. He feels little kisses pressed on the side, just below his jaw, and can't help but smile. They've been laying in bed all morning, lazily making out. He doesn't want to get up. He wants to frame the moment and keep its memory forever, this little instance of domestic perfection with no emergencies, no meta humans or aliens bothering them. It's just him and Hal, tangled limbs and soft smiles and intertwined fingers.

He might be in love, and the realization comes as easy and natural as breathing. A thumb presses down against a hip bone, rubs small circles around it; there are scars scattered on tanned skin and Barry knows them all. Once, he counted them and then kissed more than half. He exhales, the smile stretching wider.

He's unbelievably happy.

The sun streams through the wide windows on the side. Barry can see the particles of dust in the air. It's a nice day outside. It's nice inside too. It's a Sunday, so he doesn't have work and Hal has the day off, all caught up with the week's test flights for a change.

He whines when Hal moves, and the pilot laughs again, moving to kiss him sloppily before sliding out of bed. They're both naked; Barry's cheek plasters down on the pillow when he turns to shamelessly stare.

"Where are you going?"

"Bathroom. I need to piss."

The speedster spreads like a starfish. He loves Hal's bed; unlike his own, this one is big. His feet don't dangle off the edge and despite being a cheapskate on a lot of things, Hal has ridiculously nice sheets. Not silk, but the thread count is higher than Barry's.

"Hey."

He tilts his head, stares at Hal upside down. The pilot smiles.

"We should shower."

"I'm really comfortable."

"I want pancakes. Let's go to IHOP."

Food. Barry doesn't need to be told twice, so he rolls around to the edge of the bed and gets up, stretches his arms high above his head. A shower actually sounds nice. Hal goes back into the bathroom, expecting the other to follow. Barry hears the spray of water, knows Hal will tinker with it until it's the perfect temperature.

"I don't have any clean clothes here."

"You can borrow mine."

"What if they don't fit?"

"Then you go out naked."

They kiss under the shower. Hal says it's to save water, and it'll be faster than taking individual showers. It's a lie. Barry teases him for it. "You only say that so you can grope me."

"Maybe."

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, well, I was gonna say it earlier."

"What?"

"There's a music festival next weekend."

"In Central?"

"Yeah, wanna go?"

"Sure. Mosh pits?"

"Seriously? I bet you've never been in one."

"Bet you haven't either."

"You'd be wrong. Because I have. Uh, Iris dragged me to this thing once."

The water turns cold, but he doesn't think they've been in there for that long. Besides, it's warm outside so it's actually nice. Barry still has shampoo in his hair and Hal sticks himself like gum against him, pressing their bodies together like pieces of a puzzle. The dicks rub together, still soft but quickly springing to attention from the contact. Barry groans, not annoyed, almost expectant, like he'd been waiting for that moment, for Hal to laugh and admit shower sex had been the idea all along, but he doesn't say it. Barry's hands leave the mess of bubbles on his head so he can hold onto the pilot.

"Barry .."

They grind against each other like horny teenagers, hands roaming without obstacle. He tilts his head back to avoid getting soap in his eyes, and Hal uses the opportunity to assault his neck, to pepper kisses along his jaw. Barry groans, runs his hands up to wash off what remains of the bubbles and looks down. Hal exhales hotly against the shell of his ear - he shivers - and whispers lowly, his voice rough and husky.

".. Why didn't you save me?"

Wait — no .. What?

The water spiraling down the drain runs pink and gets darker. There's blood all over Barry's hands.

"Barry .."

 

"Barry, wake up!"

He wakes up with a start, heart beating fast from panic, and looks around. Sometimes when he taps on the wrong alarm, he startles to consciousness, but the phone is dark. His whole room is dark. It must be early, before dawn most likely. He shivers; the room feels chilly. The sheets tangle around his legs; his t-shirt clings to his sweaty skin.

"Barry?"

"Joe?"

The mattress dips with Joe's weight. Barry sits up and frowns, fumbles to turn on the lamp on the bedside table.

"Barry, the hospital called."

He freezes, fingers on the lamp's switch. Holds his breath and licks his lips. "Yeah?"

A hand falls on his shoulder, squeezes. Barry shakes his head, denial rising like the bile on the back of his throat. Dread pools deep in his gut, swirls something dark and hopeless in the hollow of his bones. He feels sick. Joe pulls him close.

"I'm so sorry, Barry."

_I'm so sorry._

Again, and again.

He's numb. A tremor goes down from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers. Joe rubs a hand on his back, rubs circles and lines, holds him close like he used to when he was a kid. He leans into it, lamp and light all but forgotten, and blinks hard, water gathering on the curve of his eyes; when his breath hitches and the first sob breaks through, Joe holds him tighter.

"I'm sorry, son."

No.

No way.

There's no way ..

This couldn't be happening.

"Barry .."

He doesn't know what else Joe is trying to say. All he can hear is the static of white noise and the hammering of his own heart. It's beating so fast. Too fast. Barry feels like he can't breathe. Can't breathe. He's suffocating, trying to draw oxygen in to soothe the fire in his chest.

He jolts up out of the bed, nearly tripping and landing on his face as he frantically lurches for his dresser. Joe startles. "Son? .. Barry?"

Flinging open the top drawer, he hopes to see the ring he placed carefully on top of neatly folded sweaters.

It's gone.

Thoughtlessly, his hands rip apart the organized stacks of cotton at an erratic speed he doesn't realize he's reached, until dull nails scrape against the wood of the bottom of the drawer.

It's gone.

Hal's gone.

His legs turn to jelly and the sinks to his knees, trembling hands covering his face. Socks and underwear loiter the floor around him, carelessly spread in messy piles from where they fell in his frantic search for the ring.

Why wasn't he fast enough?

He hears the bed creak, knows there is going to be a heavy hand on his shoulder and yet another 'sorry' before he's left to solemnly grieve for a while.

Instead, he hears a beep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes.


	4. amongst the vending machines and year old magazines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shows up five yrs later w/ starbucks :V

There’s a beautiful woman standing outside the room.

She looks important, but somehow, out of place. Especially standing outside of Hal’s room. Her suit makes Barry think of lawyers, but she lacks any sort of briefcase. He hesitates, unsure of who she is or why she’s there, obstructing the door. A doctor approaches and she doesn’t budge; she turns towards him, her movements somewhat stiff, and talks quietly to the doctor.

Not a lawyer, he considers then, but a guard or maybe, a guardian angel. A family member? She looks nothing like Hal, but she’s still in the same circle of attractive as the pilot; both of them good looking enough to belong in the cover of magazines. The doctor leaves and Barry buries his hesitation, walking with determination if not confidence. She turns when he’s closer, eyes roaming over him critically, as if trying to pick him apart, and Barry suddenly feels nervous.

“You must be Barry.”

That makes him stop, brain short-circuiting for a second. Does he know her? Should he know her? He comes up with a huge blank, one that must reflect on his face, because her rigid posture suddenly relaxes, the tension visibly leaving her shoulders and her gaze softens. She smiles kindly — reminds him of Iris, and she extends a hand to shake. “Carol Ferris.”

Oh.

Oh!

Of course she is. He’s seen her face before but not in person. And the name is familiar enough that it makes him feel stupid for not recognizing her altogether. She’s Hal’s boss, and maybe ..  maybe more than that. But not LIKE that, not in the romantic sense. Hal speaks of her with fondness and respect, in a sort of way that reminds Barry of his old crush on Iris. Barry’s never asked for details on what their relationship is — or was — afraid of the answer he might receive.

“Yeah, that’s me. Barry, I mean — I’m, uh, I’m Barry Allen.”

Her hand is soft, but her shake is firm.

“Hal talks a lot about you.”

That forces a nervous chuckle out of him, a dust of red coloring his cheeks. Hal talks about him? To his boss? She looks too important to humor gossip about the love life of one of her employers, which means that — yeah, they must be friends. Good friends, he hopes. Otherwise this is just more awkward than it should be.

“Good things, I hope.”

She laughs, the corners of her lips curving into a beautiful smile. “Nothing but praise.”

He shuffles in place, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the floor. Can’t say the same about her; he’s only heard little of Carol Ferris, most directly from Hal’s mouth, half of which are complaints about how she grills the pilot about work. How Hal manages to balance being a space cop with a full time job is a complete mystery.

Maybe he doesn’t. That’s the real answer. Hal barely manages to deal with everything, but he’s good at hiding the ugly reality of it. Being a superhero is hard work, not as glamorous as hollywood makes it out to be. Barry has his hands full protecting a city, he can’t imagine what it’d be like to protect a whole space sector.

“You want to get some coffee?”

That snaps him out of it, eyes focusing back on her. Worded as a question but more of a direct request. Tension coils around her shoulders again, but not as stiff before. She looks ..  tired. Not as tired as he feels, but still. He glances to the closed door; Hal is in there, and after the night Barry had, all he wants to do is look at him, touch him, make sure he’s still alive.

( He is. )

The green lantern ring isn’t hot. It’s not cold either, it just .. is. He expected something weird from alien metal, or whatever material it is, but it doesn’t feel any different than anything else he’s held before. It sits heavily in his pocket. A small reassurance that the pilot isn’t dead yet.

“I —”

Carol reaches out, touches his shoulder, gives it a little squeeze. She quietly opens the door and steps back. Barry nods, unsure of what to say, and walks past her, rushing over to the bed.

Hal still looks too pale, but with more color than yesterday.

Barry grips the bars on the side of the bed too tight, knuckles turning white from it, and feels everything crumbling, the pressure inside of him easing little by little. A sob escapes him, then another, and another. He’s crying, unable to resist the whirlwind of emotion overflowing. The loss felt too real, too visceral. Joe’s hand on his shoulder and the ring missing. He’d been there, and suddenly Hal was gone, and Barry was a little kid again, screaming, crying, wanting his loved ones back, unable to process it all.

Hal almost died. He came so close that it still scares Barry. Not just the bullet, but suddenly the realization that he’s fragile — human. Easy to hurt, easy to break. Not easy to fix. The ring didn’t help him, didn’t save him.

Barry almost failed him.

( Not fast enough. Never fast enough. )

He cries until he can’t anymore, until he’s dry, but his body continues to tremble, shoulders shaking, throat hoarse and aching. The world is blurry, his eyes still wet, but the desperation fades into something else. He’s numb, empty. Worried.

_Open your eyes, Hal. Please._

There’s a hand on his shoulder. Too small to be Joe’s.

“I hate this part. The waiting part. Not knowing he’ll survive, just hoping.”

It’s worse when Hal isn’t even on earth. When Barry doesn’t know what’s going on. When the pilot comes back, bruised and sometimes with cuts here and there, or treated wounds; he brushes it off as an occupational hazard, but it doesn’t stop Barry from worrying. The Green Lantern has shown up more than once to work together with the Flash, but the Flash isn’t able to travel to space to help. It shouldn’t bother Barry as much as it does, but he hates that. Being unable to help those he cares about continues to be an unavoidable theme in his life.

He brings up Hal’s hand close to his mouth, scatters little kisses along his knuckles.

“He’ll be okay.” He isn’t sure if he’s trying to convince her or himself, but his words sounds weak even to his own ears. It sounds like a lie trying to be a truth. “He has to be.”


End file.
